Some days later it happened that young Heriotside was stepping home over the Lang Muir about ten at night--it being his first jaunt from home since his arm had mended. He had been to the supper of the Forest Club at the Cross Keys in Gledsmuir, a clamjamfry of wild young blades who passed the wine and played at cartes once a-fortnight. It seems he had drunk well, so that the world ran round about and he was in the best of tempers. The moon came down and bowed to him, and he took off his hat to it. For every step he travelled miles, so that in a little he was beyond Scotland altogether and pacing the Arabian desert. He thought he was the Pope of Rome, so he held out his foot to be kissed, and rolled twenty yards to the bottom of a small brae. Syne he was the King of France, and fought hard with a whinbush till he had banged it to pieces. After that nothing would content him but he must be a bogle, for he found his head dunting on the stars and his legs were knocking the hills together. He thought of the mischief he was doing to the auld earth, and sat down and cried at his wickedness. Then he went on, and maybe the steep road to the Moss Rig helped him, for he began to get soberer and ken his whereabouts. On a sudden he was aware of a man linking along at his side. He cried "A fine night," and the man replied. Syne, being merry from his cups, he tried to slap him on the back. The next he kenned he was rolling on the grass, for his hand had gone clean through the body and found nothing but air. His head was so thick with wine that he found nothing droll in this. "Faith, friend," he says, "that was a nasty fall for a fellow that has supped weel. Where might your road be gaun to?" "To the World's End," said the man; "but I stop at the Skerburnfoot." "Bide the night at Heriotside," says he. "It's a thought out of your way, but it's a comfortable bit." "There's mair comfort at the Skerburnfoot," said the dark man. Now the mention of the Skerburnfoot brought back to him only the thought of Ailie and not of the witch-wife, her mother. So he jaloused no ill, for at the best he was slow in the uptake. The two of them went on together for a while, Heriotside's fool head filled with the thought of the lass. Then the dark man broke silence. "Ye're thinkin' o' the maid Ailie Sempill," says he. "How ken ye that?" asked Heriotside. "It is my business to read the herts o' men," said the other. "And who may ye be?" said Heriotside, growing eerie. "Just an auld packman," said he--"nae name ye wad ken, but kin to mony gentle houses." "And what about Ailie, you that ken sae muckle?" asked the young man. "Naething," was the answer--"naething that concerns you, for ye'll never get the lass." "By God, and I will!" says Heriotside, for he was a profane swearer. "That's the wrong name to seek her in, any way," said the man. At this the young laird struck a great blow at him with his stick, but found nothing to resist him but the hill-wind.